The Spark of it All
by quidamling
Summary: Set some time in the future, where Autobots have been under the radar except for the government's awareness.  It seems that some group wants something from these advanced technological marvels, and is willing to bend morality to get what it wants.
1. Innocent Request

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Innocent Request

**'Verse: **'07 Bay-verse Alternate Universe - based off my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, which explores how a mech would cope with organic living. (written before '09 movie, so this utterly doesn't fit with RotF)

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **Some time in the future, where Autobots have been under the radar except for the government's awareness.

**Rating: **R, alien robot intimacy

**Stuff you'll read:** There be mech/mech smex of the tactile/spark variety here.

**AN: **Umm. Massive credit where credit is due. I do pic fics, apparently. This was to this beautiful pic (take out the spaces) http:/ /community .livejournal. com/tf2007fun/854482. html so that gives a rather blatant clue where this is going.

**Disclaimer: **No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

* * *

_Searing pain carried through their bond like he himself was being shot. That was actually the case, but this doubled the sensation. He knew that opening the floodgates was unintentional on the part of his bonded, brought on by the stress and vicious nature of the attack and barrage of fire they were under. But he didn't blame his beloved, even if the burning that he felt pouring through in his chassis was making it difficult to focus and keep fighting. _

_He needed to keep fighting._

_**What the frag was going on?**_

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

There had been peace between the Autobots and the humans.

True, there was residual tension after Mission City, collateral damage, unintentional lives lost. But the government had worked to quiet the issues, to keep the Autobots under the collective radar of the world, given them space, supplies and energy allotments for converting to energon. They had even offered a secure place to lay Jazz to rest. In return, they had simply asked to have access to research a bit of Cybertronian technology. The agents and their organization insisted that it was simply to improve and modify power use, make existing technology more efficient. The four remaining Autobots had debated, but eventually agreed. Each had gone off with the humans to spend about a week at a very carefully classified facility; systems were examined, questions asked, general information gathered. They all returned and time passed. A vorn is roughly a human lifetime, what is a few years to a Cybertronian? The odd little request from the human organization had largely been shuffled to the back of their collective processors.

Until another request was received.

They wanted to check back in with Ratchet. Seems that there had been a computer error during an office move and some of the medic's specifications had been lost.

_Would the Chief Medical Officer mind terribly coming to the new address and rehashing the information? ... No? Oh, thank you so much, our deepest apologies for the inconvenience. These are the coordinates. ... Yes. ... Coordinates instead of an address, well you know how classified government locations can be. ... Thank you very much. ... Yes, those coords tomorrow at 0800. Thank you, once again._

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

Ironhide was not a morning mech by any stretch of the imagination. But when Ratchet's internal alarm system woke the medic, he was roused by the other mech's movement.

"Frag, Ratch…" he mumbled, nuzzling at the Hummer's helm and tightening his arm around that sleek waist.

"Yes, 'Hide, I need to get up. Just like I did yesterday. Just like I will tomorrow. I would expect that this pattern will have worked its way through your thick processors by now." Ratchet contradicted his snarky tone and resettled his head in the space between a broad black shoulder and neck.

A soft possessive engine rumble, "But I like you here. And processors have nothing to do with it." Ironhide shifted his chest against the other mech's, and tightened his arms around the Hummer as he rolled to his back, bringing Ratchet with him.

"Alright, boltbucket. You only like me for my frame." Ratchet ignored the indignant snort from the mech below him. "Still, I have an appointment. You may have me when I return."

"That's too long," was the low growl in retort. "I'm going with."

"Fine, then you need to actually get your sorry aft out of the berth," Ratchet replied, disentangling himself from Ironhide's arms and climbing off of him. "I'm leaving in a few breems."

"Primus-forsaken dedication to duty," Ironhide groused at the Hummer, who returned the few steps he had moved off and leaned over the ebony frame still on the berth.

"Scrapheap. You've jumped between a pulseblast and Prime, or some other mech, _how_ many times?" The sole silver digit on a chartreuse hand reached and flicked the crest above Ironhide's forehead; it made him twitch and he growled up at Ratchet, his optics flashing. "…You have no right to cast aspersions." But then Ratchet pushed his luck and traced the three glyphs etched into plating above Ironhide's brow - _protection, honor _and_ loyalty_. Deep blue optics flickered, Ironhide's dark helm nuzzling into the touch like a dog into his master's hand.

Ironhide smirked and snaked his blunt gray fingers around Ratchet's wrist. Leaning as he was, Ratchet was easy prey for his mate's quick yank and he toppled ungracefully back onto Ironhide's frame. At first, the CMO's expression was thunderous, and he huffed annoyance while moving to push himself back upright. What stopped him was the look in the weapons specialist's optics. Ironhide gazed up at his mate with an intense look that would have unnerved anyone else, but there was tenderness hidden in places where only Ratchet knew to look.

While the other mechs remained in the languages of their new planet, Ratchet and Ironhide had taken to reverting back to Cybertronian at certain moments. It was something unique, an echo of home and familiarity just between the two of them. Ironhide choose that moment to slip into their native language. His vocalizer made a low rumble and grating hiss, clang-hum, metallic scratch, followed by the crack-whine of Ratchet's affectionate designation, – "It's only duty with the others, Ratch."

There were few occasions when Ratchet, the highly vocal medic, was struck silent, but those rarities tended to be because of his bondmate. He blinked down at the black mech, Ironhide never said much, but what few words he uttered were often loaded. Ratchet shifted his hand down along the side of his bonded's face, still with 'Hide gripping his wrist. Ironhide's hand shifted with the motion while Ratchet traced tender digits over scraped paint, the ever-mangled brow of Ironhide's right optic, down his cheekspar and cupped along his jaw.

The deeper engine purred, and Ironhide turned his head enough to press his lip components into Ratchet's suddenly unsteady palm. He trailed charge with the motion, and stroked his thumb along the plating edge at the base of the CMO's wrist. He made a low resonating rumble of appreciation when he heard the gasp and click from Ratchet's hitching intakes. His free hand slid down that lithe frame, settling at the back of Ratchet's hip, guiding the still-sprawled mech to settle more comfortably over him.

Ratchet braced his other hand against the berth near Ironhide's neck. He supported himself over the TopKick's chest until he disentangled their legs enough to straddle himself over hips and sit rather upright. Once his center of balance shifted enough, he looked down at his mate. Ironhide gazed back up at him with unwavering devotion glazing over feral desire.

"You are utterly incorrigible, you know that 'Hide?" The Hummer flexed his hand against lip components, and Ironhide took the opportunity to flick his glossa over exquisitely sensitive finger pads. The medic moved his other hand from supporting himself up off of the berth and the weapons specialist, to running over cabling and neural relays near black neck plating.

"You're forgetting you encourage it." Ironhide snapped back, shuddering with the touch and nipping at chartreuse fingertips in retaliation. Ironhide pretended that his hand at Ratchet's hip was simply latched innocuously there while with his other hand at gripping at the medic's wrist wanderd up his arm, over his shoulder to find black caging over his chest.

Ratchet hissed, more in appreciation than shock. "You and- gah, sweet Primus… those fragging bullbars."

A dark, husky chuckle issued from Ironhide's vocalizer. "They get the good reactions," came the smug, unrepentant reply.

The medic harrumphed, as if that could overshadow the delectable trembling of his frame when the dark mech rolled thumb and forefinger around the base of a spotlight. His spark flared, hammering against plating and the TopKick's responded in kind.

Ratchet tipped his helm back, pressing his chassis into Ironhide's hand. Part of him realized that this little distraction was going to make them late for his appointment, but when Ironhide's not-so-innocent grip on his hip moved back to knead and squeeze at his aft, all rational thoughts slipped his processors.

'Hide made a low growl when the medic's normally sure hands trembled against his neck and lip components. The vibration of sound resonated against the medic's exquisitely sensitive hands, Ratchet warbled, rocking back and forth against Ironhide's hips in a slow sensual glide.

Ironhide bucked, devouring his mate with his optics. He adored this position, getting to watch the smooth, easy motions of the mech above him, while his hands had access to get at Ratchet's aft and chest simultaneously. After rubbing at the lighting connections, the weapons specialist slipped his arm down, letting him sneak beneath the protective bars to press at warm and shivering chestplating. Ratchet mewled, tugging on a neural cable along his bondmate's neck as the thin transformation seam creased down the center of his chest. The TopKick's engine growled encouragement while his fingertips scattered charge along the seam.

The medic's intakes hitched, and he made a shaky digital trill, translating to Ironhide's Cybertronian nickname. Bars and chestplate lifted and pulled aside, exposing Ratchet's sparkchamber. 'Hide ground a palm against the Hummer's aft, and dove the other hand in to strum along the wire's feeding into his lover's sparksystem. The casing split, and Ratch rocked forwards, washing his bondmate in beautiful blue-white spark energy. Having fairly instigated things, that was all it took for Ironhide to dismiss both barriers over his own spark and arch up, moving to pull Ratchet to his chest.

Their sparks surged, tendrils of energy caught and bound. They ground their chests together, shifting the outer fields of their sparks over the other's. Ratchet keened against Ironhide's helm, right over his audio. 'Hide nuzzled at the medic's jaw and his engine kicked, sending tickles of vibration through both frames. The two sparks flared and merged as one, reaffirming the shared bond between them; processors, frame and spark.

All that was Ironhide was Ratchet's, as all that was Ratchet was Ironhide's. Shared memories, feeling the emotions and sensations of the one they loved. 'Hide nudged at the medic's helm, nipping a jaw guard and then capturing those so-often scowling lip components with his own. Their glossa tangled, then Ratch purred and bit dental plates to the bar of his mate's lower lip, he growled lightly and tugged. It was enough to tip the weapons specialist over the edge and drag the CMO along with him. Just before they slipped into the bliss of overload, there was a chirpwhistle-purr of Cybertronian, from one of them, or perhaps it was both, - "I love you."


	2. Ulterior Motive

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Ulterior Motive

**'Verse: **Bay-verse Alternate Universe - my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, with warps and reflections.

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **Ratchet's meeting is not what he was expecting. All get more than they bargained for.

**Rating: **R, eventual fighting, pain and angst. Things fall apart.

**Stuff you'll read:** A brief battle with mild mech gore. Profanity. Established mech/mech bonded pair.

**AN: **Umm. Massive credit where credit is due. I do pic fics, apparently. This was to (take out the spaces) http:/ /community .livejournal. com/tf2007fun/854482. html

**Disclaimer: **No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

* * *

As Ratchet and Ironhide drove up to the meeting location, the coordinates had seemed deserted. While this was not entirely a good sign, it was not entirely unheard of. Humans were notorious for some of the more highly classified government facilities being hidden to the point of inanity. Ratchet shifted out of his alt-mode and peered around, slightly confused. He checked his internal chronometer. Despite bending the speed limit while still on the roads, they were a full five Earth minutes late, no thanks to 'Hide dragging Ratch back onto the berth…

Ironhide growled, still in his truck form. "Slagging humans are late for their own meeting?"

"It is _we_ that are late, Ironhide," the Hummer snapped in retort. "Thank you very much."

"You are _quite_ welcome," 'Hide practically crowed, gunning to get under his mate's plating. "But you were vocal enough with your thanks earlier."

Glancing back at the ebony metal with a rude blink-shutter-optic roll, Ratchet snorted. "Smug fragge-"

The medic was cut off by a shot to the chest out of nowhere. Ironhide surged out of his truck mode, cannons engaging as he rose and shifted to stand defensively in front of Ratchet.  
**  
~Are you…?~**, he asked silently through their bond.**  
**

**~I'm fine. Where did…~ **Ratchet began before being cut off.**  
**

**~Triangulating…~**

While Ironhide hovered before the CMO, Ratchet wore a tight expression and was touching at his chest with the sensitive pads of his fingers. The medic's faceplates shifted between pain, confusion, fascination and back to pain. There was something odd about the wound, it felt like nothing he had ever experienced. It worried him, though the scientist and medic in him was almost intrigued.

Ironhide swept scanners over the area, cannons matching the paths of his optics. There was nothing to indicate where the shot had originated… until a small army of humans surged from hidden underground bunkers, holding unfamiliar weapons that did not match any existing military specs available to Ironhide. That made weapon specialist's energon seem to run cold. As his specialty, the schematics for _all _human weapons configurations; past, present, and prototype; were available to him.

Before things utterly went to the smelter in a slag bucket, Ironhide was about to bark a command to transform and fall back. He was already leaning down to convert to his truck mode, but he and Ratchet were quickly encircled with a ring of SUVs. Startled, the two mechs moved closer to each other, tense and shifting on their feet. Dental plates ground when Ironhide finally saw the trap for what it was. The two Autobots' sole advantage was likely that those who designed this ambush were expecting only Ratchet, not Ironhide, and the weapons specialist was significantly more heavily armed than his bonded. The request had simply been for their CMO, they had taken the first shot at the Hummer. So Ironhide's core protective programing took over and he continued to try and stay between the humans and his mate.

Audios picked up murmurs of commands and words between the assorted humans.

"I thought it was supposed to be just_ one_."

"Shit, they're big!"

"I dunno, he brought a friend?"

"They turn into freaking trucks, you expect them to be small?"

"Which one do we want?"

"The doctor, 'cause he knows the most about the rest."

"I know we want the doc, moron."

"Which one is that?"

"The yell- the… the not the black one…"

"The one at the back?"

"The one hit! _Fire already_!"

The humans opened fire en masse. Even with their target in mind, they were terrible shots; hitting Ironhide nearly as often as Ratchet.

The frontliner restrained a roar along with his battle computer that he needed to wrestle away from engaging. Prime's standing ban on harming the humans seriously limited their options. He aimed cannon fire at the SUVs, charring a good few to cinders and earning 'Hide a barrage of shots towards his shoulders and forearms. Ratchet spun and deactivated a few of the weapons, a swing of his rotary blade slicing them to scrap while still in frail human hands.

Damages were shuffled back and other people kept moving forwards with more of those strange weapons. The humans' ace lay in numbers, and the sheer brute force laid into the mechs they were encircling. There seemed to be more than enough reinforcements and the possible severity of the Autobots' situation hit nearly as hard as the fire tearing through their armor.

Ironhide snarled and tipped his helm, sending a rapid transmission to the others, -Under attack, coordinates:…-

And there was something… wrong.

Even the TopKick was starting to notice that the weapon blasts were penetrating deeper into their frames than human weapons normally did or should. Ratchet was starting to slip and Ironhide gasped, suddenly feeling feedback through their bond of the Hummer's agony. Added to the sensation of fire coursing through his own systems, his processors reeled. Ratch made a keening whine and slumped against Ironhide's back. Spinning around to clutch at the medic, 'Hide looked into flickering optics. Energon still poured freely from Ratchet's first chest wound; but the medic should have been able to cut off energon lines to the damaged area, but instead it was eating its way further across the chartreuse chassis. The innocent request to study each of the mechs was apparently far from as _innocent _as whatever that Pit-spawned "organization" made it out to be.

With a shot high to his neck, Ratchet lurched and sunk to the ground. Ironhide snarled and crouched, cradling his bonded to his chest to protect him as much as possible in a mass of black armor, wishing he could shield the CMO's back as well. The weapons fire continued to rain down on them, the human soldiers moving in as the mechs slowed.

**~'Hide… h-hurts…~**

**~Save your intakes. We'll get out of this.**~

Brave, assured words, but his processors scrabbled madly, not seeing a solution. Ratchet's helm lolled against his mate's shoulder and his optics flickered, which shot terror through Ironhide's spark.

Ratchet, a healer even in his own pain, tried to comfort his bonded. His intakes wheezed but he managed a Cybertronian endearment, a soft whistle purr through their link before he faded.

As Ratchet slipped into stasis lock with energon pooling on the ground beneath them, Ironhide roared unrestrained fury.

_No._

Ratchet, Terror of the Medbay, sole mech willing and able to put up with the pain-in-the-aft that was Ironhide, brought down by a little band of humans?

_Not possible… not…_

'Hide felt his own processors starting to stick and slow. Messages flashed past his HUD, politely informing him of the dire nature of the situation. His stubborn streak could only shrug off so much lost energon and damage to his systems.

_What the frag is going on? _

Ironhide slumped over his mate, covering the medic's frame with his own in a final protective gesture before falling into stasis lock himself.


	3. Spark of Life

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Spark of Life

**'Verse: **'07 Bay-verse Alternate Universe - based off my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, with warps and reflections.

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide, assorted faceless scientists, techs, handlers, mentioned Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **Hints of what the government group's odd request really meant. A little knowledge and a lot of people can be a dangerous thing.

**Rating: **R

**Stuff you'll read:** Crazy technical ramblings on my part. Angst. Lots.

**AN: **Umm. Massive credit where credit is due. I do pic fics, apparently. This was to this beautiful pic (take out the spaces) http:/ /community .livejournal. com/tf2007fun/854482. html

**Disclaimer: **No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

AND! And and and. Kitteh (the creator of the initial idea, and artist of the inspiration pic) said eons ago I could include portions that she wrote in this story. *Up to the first break* is her work which I absconded with and wrote around to incorporate in this crazy world. So, direct from her to here; I could neither change nor improve on her genius. (And any spelling discrepancies are because her spellings are Aussie, my spellings are American.)

* * *

"It comes down to three things, basically," a voice was saying. "The spark, memory chips and the personality matrix. Now dealing with the memory chips and the personality matrix was the easy part; it was the question of how to deal with the spark that was the true challenge, since from what we've gathered, the spark is of utmost importance to these machines."

"Like our souls, you mean."

Little slip of a delighted laugh.

"Yes, exactly."

"Now the question was, what do we do with them? How do we harness them? Memory chips are easy enough to deal with. Simply reimplant them into the new host, and let programming find its way, which it does, very readily. But there is also the question of the organic matter, to consider. And how did we overcome this...?"

"Don't keep us on tenterhooks, doctor," broke in the music of Ireland, smooth and lyrical. "Do share with us what you've done, here. These specimens are marvels of the new technology."

"Yes, yes, of course. I trust you are all well acquainted with the legend of Frankenstein - Dr Frankenstein, to be exact, and his lumbering, unnamed monster."

"Old stories, Doctor - what we want is the fresh meat you've got for us."

"Ah, yes, well; put quite simply, spark energy."

"Spark energy?"

"Yes. We've harnessed it, used it in lieu of electricity, actually - like Frankenstein's lightning, only so much more potent and pure and unknown. Long ago, machines were given life by a power source very similar to this spark energy, and those ancient records we found, and put to great use, excellent use, indeed. Spark energy. We run it through the biological components. And it reanimates them, gives them a new lease of life!"

"Ooh. Amazing - excellent work, doctor, simply excellent."

"We thought so too, ourselves."

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

Most of the initial subjects came from the same source. There was a small contingent of prisoners; their warden was getting a nice little bonus under the table for culling men without families or connections waiting for them on the outside.

The first discovery came slowly; but once made, it was a true linchpin of the project.

The aliens _depended_ on their spark.

A flash of a connection could reanimate subjects; 'jumpstart the car' came the eerily cold yet apropos analogy. It was assumed that the spark was simply a power source, the battery to charge the machine. It was thought that once active, the subjects would function at capacity without further input from the original "donor energy."

This proved not to be the case.

Without an incorporated spark, without the strange senses and communications its continual presence imbibed within the subjects, they quickly went mad. They rocked and wailed, crying out for their companions mere feet from each other, perfectly functional, yet somehow blind, deaf and dumb. Each individual quickly descended into a state where they were little more than drones. That, unfortunately, negated the point of the whole endeavor.

The goal was first and foremost - a breed of superior soldiers, able to survive harsher conditions, faster, stronger, more agile and more lethal than unenhanced humans. The stories for the masses, to keep the workers compliantly coming in to do their jobs, was that the knowledge gleaned from the Cybertronians, the headway made in cybernetic enhancements would be priceless for the medical fields. Injuries, illness, and aging could all be reversed, healed, repaired.

Such beautiful sentiments...

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

The second realization came later, as the kinks were worked out of incorporating an alien spark into an implanted chamber buried in a human shell. Once that issue was resolved, the subjects began retaining some semblance of functionality.

While stable, the conversion was still imperfect. Physically and mentally, they were acceptable, yet when the subjects lasted long enough to be closely observed, it became apparent that there were subtle issues with conflicts between the memory chips and personally matrices. It became apparent that the personality of the prior host and the implanted sentience needed to have basic core personality traits in common for success. It was fine with the Phase One test subjects, the shells of the defeated Decepticons. They were destined to be the grunts, anyway.

But as they prepared to move onto the more elite members of the squads, Phase Two and Three, there needed to be more of a match than the running joke around the facility of cons for 'Cons. And so the forms started coming from a variety of sources. Sometimes genuine accidents, sometimes oddly timely mishaps that hit a particular individual, sometimes volunteers that were not aware that they had been volunteered, sometimes people that simply would not be missed.

One was a soldier, injured in training exercises that were supposed to be routine. Of course, there were always dangers involved with live ammo. His comrades-in-arms waited in the base hospital, fighting that vague sense of guilt that somehow he had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. When a man in a white lab coat came up to speak with them, they were shocked to learn that _unfortunately, with deepest regrets, they had done all they could, sometimes these things just happen…_ Their Sergeant hadn't made it. The wounds were serious, but nothing had seemed like too vital a hit. The troops had nodded in shock, but before anyone gathered enough wits to ask any questions, the information bearer had turned and vanished.

Another was a doctor that had been hit by a careless driver while helping a number of accident victims. While driving home, he had suddenly found an SUV facing him on the highway, which registered as incorrect. Then the vehicle had tumbled, just in front of where he skidded to a stop. Running on adrenaline over the shock and autopilot born of training, he pulled over to help the passengers. His shift had just finished, and he was back in his own car, without the thin veil of protection from flashing lights that EMT's had in the protective shadow of an ambulance. The only things to alert others to the medic's presence were the simple hazard lights on his own car. After pulling two people from the wreckage the man had been clipped by a passing sportscar. The impact did little besides shatter many of the bones in his body and knock the man into a coma…

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

It was dark, it was quiet, it was warm, and soft… soft? Mechs aren't soft.

He groaned, it gurgled. Vocalizers don't gurgle.

Ironhide shifted. Everything felt _wrong_. He was too light. His range of movement was off, some joints moved further, some none at all. Sensors were frighteningly muffled. He looked down at himself. It was like someone had forced him into his holoform. Except it wasn't quite his 'form, and there were mechanical additions. His lower legs almost looked… _normal_, for lack of a better term. Somehow it echoed Ironhide's own familiar black mech frame, but human scale and morphing into an organic thigh at the knee. From there up he looked human. He was wearing little but grey scrubs cut off just above his kneecaps, to keep from tangling in the components at the joint. Bare skin lay above the waistband, an alien abdomen, with bare chest and arms. A wash of sensations threatened to drown him, chemicals and biological feedback. It swamped him and his head twitched against the cold floor. The crack of metal on floor paneling; metal linked to sinew, bone and neurocabling innervated through nerves made him bark a cry. He discovered he had a visor; pale blue extended out from metallic fins over what would have been ears and _shinked_ into place. It responded to the pain, automatically protecting his optics – _eyes_. Pain and sensations that were too foreign, too alien, too wrong. He tried to shift back. But… there was no _'back_.' It was gone. It was just him.

He heard fuzzy bits of conversation through his fog, eyes closed, as if by choosing not to look he could change what lay behind those eyelids. Sounds were not nearly crisp enough, clear enough. The vibrations of speech were doubly muffled. First, through wet organic audio reception organs that lay hidden beneath black fins. Second, dampened through a layer of observation glass between the cyborg struggling to come to grips with his form and the team of observers.

"Think it's - Ironhide?"

"Damned if I can keep their names straight."

"The black one."

"The truck? Oh, with that cannon."

"_Two_ cannons. Had to stare 'em down when we took 'em"

"Them?"

"Yeah, two. And that weird color one."

"Huh?"

"Yellow"

"Green"

"Think it's 'emergency yellow'."

"Shut up, smartass."

"Fine. That one, where's he?"

"Dunno, tried the same thing on him."

"And?"

"Heard it was taking longer, he pretty much died in the field."

"Didn't make it?"

"Dun think so."

"Damn…"

Ironhide's eyes snapped open.

_He couldn't be… no… No!_

Ironhide dove into that shared space of his sparkbond with Ratchet. Somewhere in this soft mass of proteins and lipids, he still had a spark. There had to still be a sparkbond. It was slow, organic and messy, flesh did not resonate spark energy exactly like Cybertronian metal and components. Instead, he felt like something within the organic matter muted the sparkbond even within his own skin, but he managed to shift his consciousness there. He found it dark, hollow, empty. The mech… man… cyborg screamed into the darkness of that lonely bond. He pulled himself from that space, still present in his spark but alone, no longer resonating with another's presence. Back from that gaping ragged hole the loss left in his core, back to the world outside. Rage and…

_Ratchet, Ratch… how could he be… I… I couldn't protect him. They took him from me. I let them take him. Take his spark…_

It was crushing. Knowing he would never again feel Ratchet's spark against his own. Never hear that voice and feel that presence moving through him. So little time. They had denied their feelings for each other for so long. Worried about the pain of losing the other. Fearful of destroying a relationship. Not wanting to tempt fate in the middle of an endless-seeming war. In that one thing, Ironhide had actually shown infinite patience. Remaining by Ratchet's side, ever watchful, a protective presence. He showed his love by supporting the medic, keeping him safe and whole. Finally, only after the Allspark was destroyed and they had lost Jazz in that same battle, did they finally tear down that invisible wall. They both needed comfort. They needed the echo of another spark to fill the void left empty by the Allspark. Ratchet needed assurance after being unable to save one of their closest comrades. Ironhide made good on his promise to stay beside the medic, swearing to always be there for him. And they made it so. Bonding sparks, so they were always there for each other, mind, frame and spark.

Now one was gone, and the mech that remained howled his agony and collapsed in a heap of alien flesh.


	4. Resurrection

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Resurrection

**'Verse: **'07 Bay-verse Alternate Universe - based off my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, with warps and reflections.

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide, assorted faceless scientists, techs, handlers... Ratchet. Mentioned Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **Both Ironhide and Ratchet are wandering lost, inside and out.

**Rating: **R

**Stuff you'll read:** A fight, rather a lot of profanity in this chapter. Crazy technical ramblings on my part. Angst. Lots. I_ like_ angst, ok?

**AN: **Umm. Massive credit where credit is due. I do pic fics, apparently. This (is FINALLY where this picture comes in...) was to this beautiful pic (take out the spaces) http:/ /community .livejournal. com/tf2007fun/854482. html

And someone pointed out that I never offered a link to kitteh's 'Machine'-verse. Sorry, my bad! Part of the reason is that most of her 'verse is art and conversations more than published fic. But there is a chunk that did get posted, here - http:/4-cubic-metres. livejournal. com/3350. html

**Disclaimer: **No, I am poor, don't own anything. I just push them around into situations I find amusing. They belong to Hasbro/Dreamworks/rich people.

AND! And and and. Kitteh (the creator of the initial idea, and artist of the inspiration pic) said eons ago I could include portions that she wrote in this story. *The second and fourth segments* are her fantastically nightmare-feeling descriptions which I gleefully goinked and wrote around to incorporate in the story. So, once again direct from her to here; she has such a good bead on Ratchet, I just struggle to keep up. Kitteh and I are two people separated by an ocean and a common language. So we've got spelling differences. But again, ain't changing her stuff; no way, no how.

* * *

How he loathed "the team."

As time passed, he had started simply referring to them en masse, as they often were. They made a point to rarely, if ever, find themselves singly. On those few occasions, they were simply "teamers." They were all interchangeable, and were consistently interchanged, in fact. Just enough that Ironhide could never get to know the quirks and habits of one piece of scrap teamer verses the other. The instant he started getting a proverbial lock on someone, they were switched out for another new face. That lack of a decent target somehow managed to irk and provoke the Weapons Specialist.

Time dragged on. Had days become weeks?

Muscles were responding better to his commands, now able to reasonably reproduce most of what he was capable of… capable of in his true form, as a mech. Small consolation when the joints in his arms ached for the shift and feel of his old cannons. This flesh form seemed entirely incompatible with his former weapons.

More acid and salt in any number of gaping wounds.

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

"The second one's finally online, sir. Took a while, but we made it."

"Good, good. Ah, put him in together with the other one. Behavioural analysis indicates they do better in pairs. Although, next time, orders are to try a cross-faction pair. Excellent work. Thank you."

Breathe in, breath out. In, out. Slow, steady. Half awake and half in recharge, a gray inbetween state of existence in which there was nothing, in which physical pain skimming under a layer of foreign chemicals had slowly faded to a hollow emptiness.

In, out.

Quick flash images racing across the internal landscape, projected against the endless black into which odd, too-soft orbs stared - unfocused and blurred, fuzzy-edged and with a colour spectrum that was all wrong and far too narrow, lacking the additional information that used to be there. Spike of heat flaring white on infrared, scrolling data on a HUD. Names, diagnoses, the sharp edges of text and filenames.

In, out.

Ironhide and that last day, the stab of pain that raced through a shaking frame and bleeding fuel lines, lines that couldn't be clamped off. So strange... Strange as the little black figures, and the black vehicles. The weapons fire that surrounded them.

In, out, in, out.

Surge of adrenaline, surge of muscle arcing against restraints, muffled sounds that were too thick and choked and completely flat, lacking the subtlety of a Cybertronian's vocalizer, and nothing to see, only feel; the prick and burn of sedatives floating through veins, no longer fuel lines, and a body that was too small, too light, too soft and then hard in awkward places, and consciousness that slipped away on the breath of a designation.

_'Hide..._

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

As some simplified internal chronometer told him it was near mealtime, it indicated the precipitating factor in 'Hide's mood was most likely the annoying human harping about his diet and his preference for liquids. True, he'd learned his frame, -body- demanded food just under every twelve hours, which still seemed annoyingly often to a mech that barely required a refuel once a day. But despite how long it had been, 'Hide still couldn't bear to eat much of anything. Barely used to the sensation from times in his holoform, let alone that his systems _Fraggit! -body_, refused food while his every conscious thought unceasingly revolved around Ratch. Stress and pent up rage only needed the slightest pretense of provocation.

"Pit-spawned little…" Ironhide growled from the back of his throat and snapped, throwing a swift hook to the hapless man's cheek.

"Fuck you, lab rat!" The teamer rubbed at his jaw and felt with his tongue for the tooth that was most likely a lost cause. He realized a little too late that he was currently the only one in the room with the cyborg. Ironhide stood, longstanding dislike of rodents was not something that needed to be brought into it, but he was more than willing to add fuel to the fire.

The visor slid into place.

When the teamer saw that indication for what it was, and blanched, a cold scowl drew itself across the cyborg's lips. The Weapons Specialist now moved with the same surprising fluidity as a man that always shocked others as a mech. He circled the increasingly worried white-clad teamer in something approaching a martial arts stance.

"Rodent?" Ironhide snarled and pounced with sharp blows to the man's chest and neck.

There was a brief, displeasingly one-sided tussle.

Shouting back and forth with the teamers assembled outside followed, and he stood panting and snarling over the prone form. Slowly, the team rallied their own, taking longer than usual. They were working through the learning curve with the latest new blank face. The swap usually decreased the overall efficiency of the team, much to Ironhide's feral amusement. The soldier had been keeping track of roughly how long they took to sweep in and deal with him, nearly double the normal response time.

But the sea of white coats and blank faces did eventually get themselves in order. A group rushed into the cell.

Flashes of a frantic scrabble, fists flying at anyone in range, his knuckles splitting against jaws, spinning kicks took down a few more figures for a good couple minutes. Then the team surged and responded with brute force. Three of the larger teamers tackled Ironhide at once, slamming him against the wall hard enough that his head whipped back and the breath was knocked from his lungs. He snarled, feeling the old stab-burn in his arm of being stuck by a needle, again with the sedatives, before passing out.

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

There was a spark, still. Somewhere in him. Ratchet stared blindly at a wall, hand over his chest, covered with a thin cotton shirt. The press and scratch of the material against skin was utterly foreign, but it was soft, and bearable. And it did not catch against the mechanical implants, crawling up his spine and back like an intricate metallic design that moved when he did. He harboured a suspicion that his entire spinal structure was now composed of a metallic alloy, as were some of the bones in his frame. No, not frame, he thought bitterly. Body.

Some aspects of the mech remained, in the colour and shape of the armour plating that covered his calves from the knee down. And once those plates retracted, the shape of the underlying structure was an array of parts very like a protoform foot, only smaller, more delicate. Almost like the sparkling protoforms he had fashioned with his own hands... Almost.

He'd taken to pacing his quarters. Testing the movement range of this new form, the resilience, finding the centre of balance. Some of the memory, he still retained. How to move, how to fight, the agile whirling leaps that he employed often, in battle. Now, all he needed were his blades back, or some form of them... Hand rubbing subconsciously at his chest, right over where his spark chamber would have been if he'd been a mech still - wandering desolately in the coldness of an empty bond. It ate at him, the stillness, the knowledge that Ironhide was lost to him. Never to feel the sturdy, unwavering devotion from the weapons specialist, never to hear the comforting hum of his systems as they lay together, recharged together; never the gentleness of those big gray hands that seemed to be for him, and him alone. Never the low rumble of that voice, or the way the weapons specialist smarted off back at him...

He missed Ironhide with a desperation that turned him moody, and prone to lashing out with a viciousness better reserved for a Decepticon, not the former Autobot medic and CMO. For all the times he'd kept the Topkick at arms' length, fearing the loss and unwilling to risk another spark, for all the chances he'd let go, for all the times Ironhide had displayed an infinite patience for the back-and-forth uncertainty of the medic... Ratchet now counted them out with every soft footfall, every cruel smile he turned onto the faces that watched him.

Time, so little time they'd had together. He had no idea what had happened to the mech. He'd gone down before Ironhide did. And in the silence of his sparkbond, he let the aching coldness inform his every move, staring back at the team that sought to pry into his silence with murder in glowing blue eyes.

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

Chronos indicated that hours had passed. Ironhide woke feeling groggy and nauseated. Hazy recollections of what had gotten him into the current situation floated through. Already he only vaguely remembered what had prompted the initial lash-out at that sole faceless teamer. He was sure it was over something inane. Yes, not eating, and the teamer bemoaning the issue, that was it. Frag this temperamental little form that trapped his consciousness.

_Scraplet, it's a habit ingrained for millions of years…_

Ironhide shook his head, attempting to clear away the last of the chemical residue clouding his thoughts and crawling through his empty gut. Muscles quivered of their own accord; waking up after being sedated was becoming worse and worse, the ill feeling lasting longer and often affecting his thermals and balance. Ratchet. Ratchet would understand what was going on…. Ratch… Quivers escalated to become full on thrashing, but it didn't matter. He was back on the restraint board, bound torso, wrists and ankles. The cyborg roared and arched against the holds for all he was worth, collapsing back when another round of tremors raced through his body. The cyborg banged his head against the padding behind him until a teamer wrenched at the fin at his temple to force him to stillness. Deep blue eyes rolled back in his head while his mouth gaped in a silent scream.

"The boss men say you get a roomy. But only if you behave," came the vindictively smug information.

Damn a roommate, he wanted his bonded! Could these fraggers manage that? Could they? Drowning waves of grief and disorientation. He simply panted, eyes twitching back and forth while he tried to comprehend the teamer's tone. He quieted enough to earn a final spiteful yank, then he was let go. A face loomed into view, and more white coats. He could almost focus on them, and slumped against his bonds in silent assent. All knew the drill by now. They undid the restraints, none too gently and with a fair amount of snickering. After a few minutes they dumped him unceremoniously to the ground. Ironhide was left in the center of the floor, rubbing at wrists that had been ground raw while the team gathered up that damned board and herded themselves out.

_What the frag were the Primus-forsaken scraplets on about? Roomate? Fraggers. More games._

He curled in at another round of tremors and rubbed at the tightness in his chest. That was a new development… it ached. Ironhide drifted a while in his own thoughts until the door engaged and he snapped his head up.

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

Ratchet snarled at the person belonging to the hand clamped on his elbow. The pair had suddenly swept in and dragged him from his little world. True, that world was his cramped little cell, three walls and one that was largely observation glass, but part of the coping mechanism was claiming it as his.

"New quarters." The staff commented brusquely.

The medic hissed fury and whirled as much as the hand on him allowed when the other staff member encouraged him along by pressing his palm against Ratchet's back. Finding the implants along his spine were still both very sensitive and a sensitive issue, he bristled, shoulders shooting up and the visor threatening to slip into place.

"I am capable of propelling my own forward motion," he snapped and suddenly wrenched at his arm, deftly pulling it from the other's grip. An askance sneer over his shoulder and he strode forward. The two hovered at either hip in that mistrustful way guards so often employed with their prisoners. Reaching a branch in the hallway, the CMO turned condescendingly cooperative blue eyes on his two escorts and dripped snappish sarcasm. "Now which direction, _gentlemen_?"

One of them gestured down the option with fewer doors along the way. And "fewer" meant "two." One, an armored door fairly similar to the one that Ratchet had just crossed through, and the other nearby less armored and less heavily coded and locked. Another cell and observation room, the medic surmised.

"An upgrade or downgrade in my accommodations?"

"Hey, the guys that get the big bucks said you're here. So you are."

A sneer. "Thank Primus I am in such competent care."

The man laughed a demeaning snicker while they stopped at the armored door and he swiped a keycard. "Get off your high horse, professor. No more single apartment. And this guy's an asshole. Fuck load of luck you're going to need dealing with him." There was a flicker of pleased malice in those eyes. "But we were nice enough that he's still doped up for your first meeting."

Returning to his habitual rubbing at his chest through the cotton shirt, Ratchet huffed and turned away with a slight blink. He had been used to dealing with his very own pain-in-the-aft, it hurt and he missed every nanosecond of it. Biting back a noise at the reminder, he barely registered the sound of the door engaging. The medic surrendered to the shove at his shoulder and walked through, fight drained from his body and numb everywhere but his aching spark.


	5. Reunion

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Reunion

**'Verse: **'07 Bay-verse Alternate Universe - based off my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, with warps and reflections.

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **What once was lost, now is found...

**Rating: **R

**Stuff you'll read:** Implications of medical abuse, and the resulting chemical dependency. Mild profanity. Angst.

**AN: **(Attempting to shorten these.) See Ch. 4 for the inspiration pic, and a link to a ficbit of kitteh's "Machine." The symptoms described in this chapter are fictional, but are based on research on withdrawal from benzodiazapines.

And thank you to those that left reviews or critique! It's much appreciated!

* * *

The door shifted closed and the two cyborgs stared at each other, both looking lost in their own way. Two pairs of blue eyes met; one pair slightly unfocused and almost sleepy-looking, the other lighter in color and flicking around the new space.

Black mechanics scrabbled and managed to get beneath muscle and bone enough that Ironhide could successfully drag himself up from the floor. He put off rubbing at his chaffed wrists and shifted into a ready stance, despite his swimming head making his balance a little shaky.

The new arrival watched and shifted away from the door, circling the darker cyborg.

Ironhide was moving on instinct, mirroring motion. His body was still rebelling from recently regaining consciousness, and fighting the lingering effects of the sedatives left his mind and processors foggy. Aside from that, his spark was screaming in his chest. Something about the other being called to Ironhide. He watched his new roommate rub at his chest through the grey shirt he was wearing. Ironhide saw echoes of familiar shapes and a color not found in nature… either on Earth or Cybertron.

Ratchet narrowed his eyes at the shirtless figure he had been dumped in with; he noted the body language, the movements. The man was wobbly, most likely due to the drugs the staff had mentioned, but still surprisingly comfortable in his defensive stance. There was something deeply familiar about him and his black armor slinking through the dim lighting in the cell. Messages about the other scrolled across his HUD, medical subroutines kicking in despite the tension. A few issues were immediately flagged: dehydration and symptoms of chemical withdrawal. Then Ratchet realized they were moving slightly closer as they circled each other. He found his hand had drifted back to his chest, falling into his recent habit of massaging over his sternum through his shirt, and Ratchet was panting in time with the ragged breathing of the other.

Ratchet stopped and cocked a hip. Someone and angry and difficult with black armor...

Ironhide froze and started at that pensive expression. Taking the time for analysis despite a tense situation, and that man's stance…

And both felt a flicker of a presence in their sparkbond, a presence that they had each been lacking.

They both questioningly murmured the other's designation and stepped to close the gap. Hands reached for the ache that they had been feeling and knew their mate had been subjected to as well. The moment fingertips met skin and cloth, the bond surged back to vibrancy. They trembled, rocked as deeply as the moment their bond had originally been forged.

Ironhide gasped. He had heard them. He had heard the teamers say that Ratchet had not survived. But here he had confirmation that they were wrong.

A sparksignature could not be faked. No technology on Cybertron could mimic an individual's unique spark. If the humans, with their primitive technological skills had changed or damaged their sparks in any way, they would simply not be Ratchet or Ironhide. Of course, copied memories could be there, factual information. Memory chips would hold the content, what occurred, when, whom was present. But the spark held all that made a mech _him._

His spark made the information Ironhide's; made them his memories, with the reactions, the emotional implications of the events. Without his spark he would not have the pride of having once been the Head of Optimus Prime's Guard, feel that deep unabashed loathing for all things Decepticon, or so desperately missed that spiky spitfire love that he shared with Ratchet.

If the sparkbond resonated again, it could not be an imposter. Hummer and TopKick had been reunited, if not in frame, in mind and spark.

"Ra-Ratch…" he slid his arms up and around Ratchet's shoulders.

The medic made a soft hum and brought his hands to Ironhide's hips, chin tilted up a fraction to look at him.

"They said, I heard them say… you were deactivated…" 'Hide choked out. He stared hard at that unfamiliar face; the form that now held such a familiar essence. The weapons specialist memorized new angles, set beneath a neat crown of medium length reddish hair. He learned the lines of the nose and jaw, followed along cheekbones. Eyes roamed over the planes of the brow, looked into proud, piercing blue eyes that glowed faintly with enhancements. Ironhide noted fins similar to his own along Ratchet's temples, but chartreuse instead of black, smaller and two squared off blades. The human ear was still visible, framed by a graceful arc of neon armor. Metal implants curled up over each side of the medic's jaw, reminiscent of corresponding pieces that 'Hide's lip components knew so well in mech form.

"Mmm. It was dark. Dark and silent for so long." Ratchet replied softly. Always tactile, he started to draw a hand away from the weapons specialist's bare waist and then paused, sensing something at the small of his mate's back. Fingers, not so finely tuned as the CMO Hummer's, but still capable beyond that of even the most sensitive human, traced a nigh imperceptible raised marking - a brand. His eyes flicked to Ironhide's, and flashed amusement when he recognized the insignia that his fingertips traced. 'Hide was still marked as an Autobot, even in this form. He pulled his hand away and ghosted fingertips over abdomen, chest, neck, up along a jaw-line decorated with dark stubble. Slowly, he continued his exploration along Ironhide's temple, and through the short military cut of black hair, then down over his brow and nose. Ratchet's fingers touched lips momentarily; he looked shocked, then pleased by the gasp it drew from 'Hide. Then the medic moved his hand on to the round component that obscured any semblance of Ironhide's human ear. His fingers traced up the broad, sweeping black fin, finding that the action trailed static. The heat and charge made Ironhide twitch his head like a skittish horse. Even in this utterly backwards situation, Ratchet found a bare hint of a cheeky grin to thank his bonded. "Nevermind. You know."

They pulled slowly together, wrapping their arms around each other in a tender embrace for isolation ended. With contact, their bond was pure and clear. Each felt whispers of elation from the other, no longer alone, their mate once again at their side.

Things were entirely wrong. How had this been done to them? Why had this been done to them? A preponderance of questions and not an answer in sight, but at least they were finally together.

"Never been so… Ratch." Ironhide rubbed his cheekbone along Ratchet's temple while drawing a stuttering breath. He had almost said 'terrified,' not in any time in the war had he been so scared. Not when he had stood outnumbered by Seekers, or stared down Megatron, because Ratchet had always been beside him. Not when he had lain broken on any number of distant battlefields, feeling his energon draining from shattered systems. Not while he started to seriously entertain the notion that he was going to deactivate, because each time Ratchet had found him and dragged him back from the brink. But if he lost Ratchet, that scared him more than his own demise.

"Very endearing," Ratchet snipped, "I'm stubborn enough to keep up with you, stubborn enough not to be deactivated easily." He tucked his head into that spot he knew so well as a mech, just between Ironhide's shoulder and neck. It was different; soft flesh and hard muscle and warm, with 'Hide's pulse fluttering against his temple. One thing was the same. It still felt like the space was made for him.

Ratchet was calmer, curling into the familiar steady presence of Ironhide's spark. If he blanked it out, he could almost imagine it was just the two of them in their holoforms. They were still for a few minutes, the medic's hand had found its way to one of his favorite places to tease at the back of 'Hide's neck. The taller man shivered, and Ratch chuckled. Fingertips trailed up to the hairline at the base of his skull, but then the medic froze.

The skin beneath his hands felt clammy and chilled. The redhead snapped his gaze up to his mate, and chemical signals raced through his body when he saw Ironhide's expression. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched tightly as 'Hide fought to restrain the shivers quickly turning to quaking. Ratchet's HUD screamed to the forefront; Ironhide's temperature had spiked, but he was not sweating. The soldier slumped against Ratch, and was slipping into borderline convulsions.

"You misclocked scrapheap!" Ratchet barked. "Why didn't you say anything? You and your damn stoic streak! Fraggit!"

Ironhide mumbled something mostly incoherent and let Ratchet duck under his arm to guide, then eventually drag him to the bed along the wall. Normally, the soldier found the soft squishy cushioning preferred by the humans to be awkward, but when he flopped onto the mattress in the throws of muscle spasms, he appreciated it.

While the weapons specialist curled into a ball, the medic glanced around. The room was similar enough to the one he used to inhabit. Which meant that there should be a sink, and once located, Ratch went over, found a glass and returned to the bed. He sat by Ironhide's head and put a hand on his back. Muscles jumped beneath the skin, and he could feel Ironhide's racing heartbeat. Ratchet pulled his bonded's head into his lap, and lifted his chest enough to get the glass to his lips without dumping it on him.

"Come on, idiot. You're dehydrated. That body is 60 percent water. You need it."

'Hide choked down about half of the glass without comment or a fight. Unfortunately, that cooperative streak did little to comfort Ratchet as to Ironhide's condition.

Ironhide shuddered and pushed away the glass, unable to manage the last few sips. He groaned then burrowed into Ratchet's lap. Part of it was shielding his eyes from the light, but he also was suddenly terrified that his mate's presence was a fever dream. 'Hide clutched feebly at Ratchet's thighs, trying to ensure that he could not vanish.

"Fraggitall," Ratchet muttered, pulling the blanket over Ironhide and trying to make him as comfortable as possible. "I should have known you'd be getting in trouble without me."

Though Ironhide lacked finesse in his current state, he nudged Ratchet through their bond. It was a monumental relief to have that intimate form of communication back. He tried to filter out his own discomfort from passing through the link, but sending impressions directly to Ratchet was easier than speaking. The feelings were a bit chaotic, 'Hide had spent so long trying to come to terms with the loss of his mate, that he was still rocked by what felt like Ratchet's resurrection. The clearest image was that without Ratchet's balancing presence, there was no incentive to behave. The fact that they had been taken from Prime, also did nothing to keep Ironhide in line.

Ratchet snorted, forgoing the desire to swat at Ironhide's audial fin, and instead brushed his fingers through short black hair. He got more comfortable, leaning his back against the wall and adjusting his legs around Ironhide's body to prevent getting too cramped. Ratch listened to his mate's breathing even out, and felt his muscles slowly stop quivering and relax. What exactly Ratchet could do to ensure that Ironhide stabilized and recovered depended on what their captors allowed him to do. If the agents thought they had ever seen Ratchet's true determination, they were sorely mistaken.

"Get some rest, Ironhide. I just got you back, I'm not losing you to your own stupidity."

The answering grunt was quiet, but Ironhide did as ordered. He eased his grip on his bonded and let the encroaching darkness take him.


	6. Repercussions

**Title:** The Spark of it All: Repercussions

**'Verse: **'07 Bay-verse Alternate Universe - based off my friend kitteh's 'Machine'-verse, with warps and reflections.

**Characters / Pairings: **Ironhide/Ratchet

**Summary: **Define "Illness" for the Cybertronians, please.

**Rating: **R

**Stuff you'll read:** Implications of medical abuse, and the resulting chemical dependency. Mild profanity. Angst.

**AN: **(Attempting to shorten these.) See Ch. 4 for the inspiration pic, and a link to a ficbit of kitteh's "Machine." The symptoms described in this chapter are fictional, but are based on research on withdrawal from benzodiazapines.

Truly, I did not die. I just moved… 4.6 thousand miles and 4 timezones away to a beautiful land… with really shoddy internet. So I hope to be able to post more consistently soon, but I can't promise, because that promise would be made to be broken.

Thank you to anyone who read previous chapters, and particularly massive hugs to those that left reviews or critique! It's much appreciated!

* * *

Ratchet swiped the tray from the blubbering man in white, secretly glad that even as a humanoid, he could still intimidate the spark out of someone. He slammed it down onto a tabletop just beside the door and stomped to stand just mere centimeters in front of the hapless science tech. The amount of hunching and quailing from human in front of him did little to curb Ratchet's tirade.

"What have you been giving him!" the medic snapped, pointing back at Ironhide curled and panting on the bed. "How often? Dosages? Someone said he had been sedated. Do you realize that he is exhibiting classic symptoms of chemical dependency and withdrawal? Whose authority is he even under?"

The man desperately tried to look anywhere but at the inhumanly glowing blue eyes glaring furiously at him. "We, uh, were given authorization to use sedation when he got unruly."

"Fraggit! If Ironhide were drugged every time he was belligerent he should be dead! My optics function, I scanned his arms. You were damned needle-happy. How many times did you put him under? Was it easier to simply put him in stasis… force him unconscious? Unwilling to get off your collective afts and actually deal with it? Did you even have a medic- a _doctor_ supervising your little games?" Ratchet hollered, ramming a finger into the man's chest. "The idiocy of-"

"Ratch…" Ironhide's gravelly murmur from the bed paused Ratchet's incensed rant. Ratch turned to meet his mate; his eyes were unfocused, tight with pain and blinking against the light. "A-appre-ciate you com-ming to my… defense," he panted, "but yell quieter… or shut… the frag up."

This was all the distraction that the chastised teamer required and he slunk out the door to make his escape. Ratch narrowed his eyes at his bonded and spun back just in time to have the door hiss closed in his face. He made a feral snarl and hissed back. "Pit-spawned, cowardly little scraplet."

"You… tell that- door," the weapons specialist grunted softly.

"Mute it." Ratchet huffed a final time at the door that the tech had retreated through, then grabbed the tray of food and went to sit on the bed. He pulled at some bread and popped the piece in his mouth. "Come on, old mech, your blood sugar is low. Glucose and carbohydrates should help your symptoms."

'Hide was lying on his side with his knees drawn towards his chest. He made a habit of late keeping his face buried in the nest created by his forearms; even with all the filters he could apply to his vision, the lights in the room were positively intolerable. "Eurgh… Ratch…" his hand twitched while he tried to push the offending food away. "I ate… ten hours… fine."

"Boltbucket," the medic snipped, with less bite than the word implied. "You never paid attention to your Lennoxes or Bee's Sam? You are human now, or at least a cyborg, I suppose. Try five to six hours. Maybe ten while sleeping."

"Always… been sp-ecial."

"You've always been an idiot."

Ironhide groaned through another round of shakes. Ratchet adjusted the blanket over the weapons specialist and stroked his back, hating the fact that he was trapped fairly helpless to do anything to ease Ironhide's symptoms. Ripping off another portion of bread, he nudged and held it to his mate, but Ironhide recoiled. Huffing, Ratchet just rapped on 'Hide's cranium and popped the morsel into his own mouth. He chewed pensively, then paused and swallowed.

"Alright, 'Hide." Ratchet shifted and scooted himself under the other man's chest, forcing Ironhide almost upright against his own torso.

"Ratch." The complaint fell short, heat from another body felt good and helped regulate his own temperature, so 'Hide let Ratchet hold him to his chest. His head still hung down and his eyes remained clamped shut, but he was semi-vertical.

Ironhide didn't notice Ratchet grab some bread and a little bit of meat and slip it into his mouth. The medic chewed, then tipped up the other cyborg's chin and kissed him.

The soldier tensed, startled by the sudden gesture from his mate. He blinked and realized the ruse when Ratchet coaxed his mouth open with his tongue, and passed him a morsel of food. Ironhide grunted and tried to break the kiss, but Ratchet wouldn't let him. Caught, he swallowed, and only then did Ratchet let him pull away.

Ratch had a delightfully smug expression all across his face.

"Sneaky fragger," Ironhide grumbled and dropped his head back to Ratchet's shoulder.

"_Concerned_ sneaky fragger," Ratchet countered, and nudged his jaw lightly against Ironhide's temple.

"You always use that excuse," Ironhide grumbled petulantly, nudging his brow against the edge of Ratchet's neck, it did not go unnoticed that he normally cradled Ratchet there against his own throat.

Ratchet nudged at Ironhide through their bond. He knew that despite his exhaustion, Ironhide's discomfort and general misery rarely let him sleep. 'Hide was keeping his end of their link muted, probably to protect him from sharing too much in Ironhide's pain. Still, after so long thinking the bond was broken, the lack of communication was a kind of mild torture in itself. "The stop giving me so many damn reasons," Ratch crooned, gently but firmly pushing through Ironhide's paper-thin blocks on their bond.

"Don't-" Ironhide tried, his hand twitching on Ratchet's chest. When he felt the supportive warmth of his mate's presence in his spark, he hummed and went quiet.

**Follow my lead,** Ratchet whispered through their bond, coaxing Ironhide through the biofeedback steps to help relax his muscles, bring down his heartrate and slow his breathing. When his mate finally slipped off to sleep, Ratchet pulled the blanket up around his shoulders and continued nibbling at their dinner. Only when he was sure that 'Hide was truly resting did he squirm down to lay flat and fall asleep himself.

**ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo ooooo**

"Ratch…" Ironhide woke later that night and curled reflexively, fighting the shudders wracking through his body.

"Easy, 'Hide. You're fine. And you wouldn't be in this mess if you could have actually behaved," Ratchet grumbled, rough from sleep and being suddenly awakened, but still cradling his bondmate to his chest.

Ratchet snipped something about human idiocy for the umpteenth time and stared pensively at the dark ceiling. He was not used to this. Ironhide's symptoms had continued to develop for the better part of two weeks. The concept of 'illness' was decidedly foreign, _alien_ even, to any Cybertronian.

As a CMO, Ratchet knew the full gamut of Cybertronian health issues and still ran through them in his head when he was stressed. Programming could develop glitches over time, or be infected with viruses; but glitches could be reprogrammed, viruses wiped and coding rewritten. Then, considering that this was Ironhide, Ratchet was most used to dealing with damage inflicted on his mate in battle. Oddly, mechanical injury was sometimes the most straightforward to deal with. The physical destruction of the frame was rarely the issue of most concern. It was usually secondary problems that were the true dangers. Energon loss could lead to processor and systems shutdowns; damage to coolant systems would result in overheating and could corrupt memory; processor disconnects robbed the mech of control over his own systems. Most frightening, was damage to the sparkchamber, associated support circuits or the spark itself; that damage had the capacity to rob a mech of his very essence. But barring that very small subset of parts, all systems could be repaired or replaced. What little the medic was unable to fix, self-repair could manage given energon and time, with what an organic would consider astounding speed.

Organic bodies had been melded with Cybertronian mechanics and technology to create their current selves, that much was patently obvious. As much as Ratchet hated the step backwards from his mechanoid being, back to the wall, the former-Hummer would admit that for a human, reaching their Cyborg state would be an astronomical leap forward. His and Ironhide's senses were multiple times more sensitive than a human's. Their immune and healing systems were also far advanced beyond anything the 'Average Joe' could ever dream to possess.

The sole hurdle that kept Ironhide from the imperviousness that his enhanced body should have been endowed with, was the reckless use of drugs specifically designed to side-step their advanced healing capabilities. The last that any of the thrice accursed teamers wanted was for an angry, belligerent Ironhide-cyborg to wake up while they were still working. It was only drugs and restraints that kept their fragile, wholly human, bodies safe from the significantly more capable being that their scientists had created.

Drug withdrawal or not, the medic reminded himself, Ironhide could not stay sick forever. They lay under the blankets, while Ratchet felt like he was cooking and wished that he still retained his mech coolant systems. Unfortunately, in his current state the former weapons specialist could not regulate his body temperature, so the medic quietly dealt with the discomfort and in turn comforted the more solid-looking soldier. He kissed Ironhide's slightly clammy brow, tucked against his neck in a reversal of their usual positions and ran his hand softly through short dark hair, barely brushing the black fins until Ironhide slipped back into an uneasy sleep.


End file.
